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Dawning

Each morning he would take a pick-ax to the Dawn, machete strokes anchored from the Decending Sickle Moon he, like Night, would show up with blood-red streaks on his ax and hack away at carving another day from a reluctant horizon, which flattened itself away trying not give him another day, trying indeed to conceal, Light and Hope from him.

All he had had to be fought for, pick-axed from scrabble ground and each day the sweaty effort his efforts had to be breach-born into the Light from the Dark.

Till that day, pick-ax in hand, he failed.

He failed to bring even a meager dawn and he sat despondent thinking this was the end, the end of all had come to this.

Sitting at his side Despair whispered to him, 'Are you seeing that this is end? Are you willing to embrace me, kiss me on the mouth? '

Despair was beautiful and a part of him loved her so. Some many times he had lain with her, no wallowed in her arms and found comfort there.

Here she was again, at his side, telling him to lay his head in her lap, take some comfort there and once again some part him asked 'What is the use?
Depression and Despair twin sisters these two were more familiar to him than his own family who for the most part were unaware of his turmoil, his daily travals, his agonies.

And he took a deep breath ready to succumb when music came. Some one was playing music. He looked up to see the twins wide-eyed, their eyes betraying fear, and yes, Despair.

He looked around to see who was making the music when suddenly it stopped as she rose from the Pick-Ax Dawn walking, no floating toward them, a slight musical strain in the air as Despair and Depresson stared at her apparition waning in the growing light each looking from him to her, both finally saying as they left, 'We'll be near if you need us.'

She of the dawning light drew nearer and stopped twenty feet in front of him falling silent.

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Asunder Dawn

As everything slither into the breaking dawn
My girdles grew tighter with the anticipation;
A melancholic kick of angry chemicals
Reciting incisively euphonious harmonies
What is there basking behind the sunrise?

Bleak and golden like a tangible gloriole
Resembling a golden noose only sharper
And for every treasure there will be a culprit
Like how every feel good is stained with treachery
I wished to sink by the crevasse of a memory
Unmarred by your presence; in innocence
And as you unsheathe a smile that you vie to own
I would keep my frown like the chasm that it was
And if you will throw your cigarette away
I would start to drag deeper until I smother
Myself with audacity, to let go of your company
Because I would rather watch a comrade die vying
Than sulk sewing death wishes from lazy strings
That is, if it is death cleaving inside this migraine

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poem by Norman Santos
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West by North Again

We've drunk our wine, we've kissed our girls, and funds are sinking low,
The horses must be thinking it's a fair thing now to go;
Sling the swags on Condamine and strap the billies fast,
And stuff a bottle in the bags and let's be off at last.
What matter if the creeks are up - the cash, alas, runs down!
A very sure and certain sign we're long enough in town.
The black fella rides the boko, and you'd better take the bay,
Quart Pot will do to carry me the stage we go today.

No grass this side the Border fence! and all the mulga's dead!
The horses for a day or two will have to spiel ahead;
Man never yet from Queensland brought a bullock or a back
But lost condition on that God-abandoned Border track.

When once we're through the rabbit-proof - it's certain since the rain -
There's whips o' grass and water, so, it's West by North again!
There's feed on Tyson's country - we can "spell" the mokes a week
Where Billy Stevens last year trapped his brumbies on Bough Creek.

The Paroo may be quickly crossed - the Eulo Common's bare;

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poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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Siren Song

Some sensed sweet siren calling
through airwaves from the West,
fleet song, treat neat, recalling
enchantment sung with zest,
wove subtle thread enthralling
to filter second best,
sent competition sprawling
wash waved away all rest.
All felt sweet siren calling.

Who that muse music heeded
were haunted by her flaunting.
She offered what they needed,
what they perceived was wanting,
with further wishes seeded.
Unequalled, fair and daunting -
all warnings went unheeded –
she led all onwards, taunting,
as Fate’s dire doom was speeded.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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What is Life?

Aggress legitimately
I can hear screams from the back of the barns
“somebody help, someone help, call 911,
my daughter is bleeding”.
Yvonne,16, cuts her wrist as she figures,
that’s the only exit, to Hell
Her wild life has taken its toll
Her parents were too exhumed
with exuberant life
They can’t afford to be back dated
I was once walking on the road
leading to the Police precinct
when I saw a lady was robbed,
shot and no ones around
rendered a helping hand
She’s bleeding to death
before I could call the ambulance
Life could be pleasant all the way for some
It’s like walking in the middle of the park
You feel free to embrace the crouch air

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poem by Sulaiman Mohd Yusof
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The Chase

Quick, fly to the covert, thou hunted of men!
For the bloodhounds are baying o'er mountain and glen;
The riders are mounted, the loose rein is given,
And curses of wrath are ascending to heaven.
O, speed to thy footsteps! for ruin and death,
Like the hurricane's rage, gather thick round thy path;
And the deep muttered curses grow loud and more loud,
As horse after horse swells the thundering crowd.

Speed, speed, to thy footsteps! thy track has been found;
Now,
sport
for the
rider
, and
blood
for the
hound!

Through brake and through forest the man-prey is driven;

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Marveled Brains

SUCCUMB TO
RETIREMENT -
Thank wholiness, for whom probably feel that physical rest should only be for the elderly. Arriving at the biblical 'Sabbath' of life,
to that of where human mortals prematurely expire in Peace?

Are we to be considered, useless Seniors, grouped by whom
beholden of them selves are 'Worn-torn', having near wasting,
emaciated workless bodies? Statisticians falling prey to their
own predictions of expiring ill and living, ' Happily Ever After'?

Sofa comforted, TV cheering for the beastly brawn male, winning
teams, losers frown, becoming enemies, the while winners proceed
as braved victors for monetary awards and celebrity status.

The while all mal led robotic military, battle and die for Peace and
political free dumbness. This sad frowning WW ll veteran author,
placidly displease of such rhetoric. Having the self caring of aware-ness to survive and witness world stricken inhumanness. My having thus far, fortunately lived four score and near two years. Our failing, independence declaring forefathers, mostly all, whom had aged, had never succeeded in the retirement of War and the freedom of flawed religious doctrine

It is of my own insight to fore-mentor all youth, be they studious
and loving, caring and persevering, seeing their 'Glorious' birth

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poem by Louie Levy
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Racial abuse

When dead night descends on earth,
It is for sure someone is picked from his berth,
To travel safely to heavenly abode and reside,
Seek permanent refuge with all worries to subside,

Night depict horror, terror in colour black,
No chance to recover and report back,
But when it largely looms over the big horizon,
Big dark forests may feel shame in Amazons,

Nature’s discrimination is well defined,
It has message and meaning well refined,
Never it has narrow aim and not confined,
Always kind to mankind and not fined,

If nature resorts to some kid of discrimination,
The place left is only ground cremation,
It needs no signal for confirmation,
Its impact is always yes in affirmation,

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Monsoon Rains

As a rainbow arches to the cloud-marred heavens
As to the midday zenith the morning sun leavens
As the clouds scamper along the azure sky
Raindrops trickle even as the sun through the clouds pry

As the trickle elevates to a seasonal downpour
As the monsoon whisper sweet nothings to the awaiting floor
As life forms scamper to escape the pummeling rains
Lavishing in a deluge are the corner drains

As monsoons erupt from Aeolus's north-western path
Waiting are the feathered kind for a liberating bath
As the feathers soak in the gallons of heaven's tears of joy
The beak partakes with a whisper from the aisles in an air coy

As the umbrellas open up to the falling fiesta
The elderly succumb to the comforts of an evening siesta
As the mud puddles appear on the pavements' loft
Sweet surrendering are the pants to a splatter exuberant yet soft

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poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
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A lion's head

At heart you were deer
liked by all and to be addressed as dear
preferred nice words to hear
without any stab to fear

Lions do not roar
still there is uproar
he has wild land to rule
In nice king's role

Who has not seen their elegant style?
they move freely in their kingdom for a while
they rule over thousands of miles
yet it is habitat to live for meanwhile

A lion does not share
he never looks around and stare
still everyone praises his role as fair
there is charm and thickness in air

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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